


Forget Me Not

by TigStripe



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Continued from the Series Finale, Dealing With Loss, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigStripe/pseuds/TigStripe
Summary: With the Warehouse relocating sometime in the future, the agents of Warehouse 13 have to struggle to continue in their day-to-day activities, including pings, dangerous artifacts, and...therapy?





	Forget Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking an interest in my first WH13 fanfiction!  
> This one's a serious one, following the events of the finale, which means yes, Pete and Myka are an item. But I, like many, don't particularly care for that pairing canonically, so you can be sure it isn't the primary focus of the story.
> 
> Enjoy!

The air of the sunroom at the B&B was tranquil, with only the sound of pages being turned breaking the utter silence. Mid-afternoon sunlight radiated from on high, illuminating the hardwood table in a soft glow that Myka used to pore through the novel in her hand, her feet drawn up onto her chair. Her eyes were glued to the page, wide with anticipation, her heart thumping in her chest. Her lips pressed tightly together, and her free hand absently twirled a dark lock of hair near her shoulder.

To Myka, the rest of the world simply didn't exist.

No notice was paid to the soft thumps of the other agent entering the room, and even despite his high-pitched pseudo-guitar noises, Myka couldn't be bothered to tear her eyes away from the book in front of her. Pete, complete with comfy t-shirt and mismatched socks, plopped down heavily in the chair across from his partner, a plate of biscuits in one hand and a small jar of jam in the other. Continuing his vocal guitar solo, he delicately placed the food onto the table halfway between them. Pete snatched a biscuit from the plate and gave a rather noisy chomp into it.

“Chew with your mouth closed.” Myka's voice was quiet, almost absentminded. She acknowledged Pete's presence, but it was the furthest thing from the front of her mind.

Pete opened his mouth wide and gave the uninterested Myka a nice show of the half-eaten biscuit residing on his tongue before swallowing. “Whatcha readin'?”

“ _Down the Barrel_ , by our favorite noir author,” Myka replied, just as absent as before.

“Ah.” Pete took another bite of his biscuit. “ _Mister_ Bishop.” Finally, Myka flashed a glance up at Pete. He offered her a biscuit, but she waved it away before returning to her novel.

“It's four in the afternoon, Pete, biscuits are for breakfast.”

“ _Breakfast_ isn't for breakfast, Mykes.” He grinned. “Breakfast is the universal meal!”

Myka tried to hide the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth, but Pete caught it and his grin expanded. The tugging smile immediately disappeared as Myka gave him a stern look, and he feigned a cough before returning quietly to his meal.

“What happened to _To Tomorrow and Back_?” Pete asked as he opened the jam jar with probably just a little too much gusto. The top almost went flying across the table.

“Finished it. We haven't had a ping in two weeks. I'm...keeping myself busy.”

Pete didn't ask what that meant. Her voice was stern, almost choked. He was sure she was trying to avoid thinking about the Warehouse moving. Mrs. Frederic had said it could happen at any time, and it had been almost a month. It was all he could do to stop himself from getting upset about it all over again.

Instead of dwell on such negative thoughts, Pete felt a chuckle in his chest as he reached under the table with his foot and tickled Myka's thigh. Her free hand shot down from her shoulder to his foot, roughly taking his forefoot and pulling it away from her.

“Not now, Pete,” she said, her eyes weary.

Pete slowly pulled his foot back. “Sorry. Just thought-”

“Try again,” Myka snapped. “I know you. You want footsie to go places.”

Pete gave a one-armed shrug. She wasn't wrong. “You know, it's kinda scary how well you know me. Sorta takes the fun out of trying to be spontaneous, because you're always on the lookout for it.”

“And what would you have me do, Pete? I'm sure I'm not the first woman that's gotten to know you well enough to expect the unexpected. Do you want me to forget about you?”

“No, no,” Pete replied quickly. Myke returned to her book. He again fell into silence and took another bite of his biscuit, trying not to think of a world where Myka had forgotten about him.

After a moment, “Good.” Myka idly reached her free hand out onto the table, her palm up, waiting for Pete to take it.

Myka felt the warm softness of Pete's hand in hers, but when she closed her fingers around it, she realized that instead a biscuit had found its way into her palm. Now fully distracted, Myka looked over at her biscuit-laden hand in annoyance. She reared her free arm back and launched the biscuit at Pete, who covered his face with his arms as the food bounced harmlessly away.

As the biscuit flopped onto the floor, a petite woman with long, dark hair entered the room. “No throwing food in the house. “I'm the one who has to keep this place up now.”

“Sorry, Abigail,” Myka replied, finally closing her novel and putting her feet back on the floor. “I'll get it.”

“No, no, my fault, I'll get it,” Pete interjected, hopping up and over to the discarded breakfast.

“You two sure are...helpful,” Abigail observed, her arms crossed over her chest as she inspected each of the Warehouse agents in front of her.

“I'm always helpful,” Pete corrected her, heading toward a trashcan.

Myka let out a great _Ha!_ before offering Abigail a biscuit. Abigail declined.

“Has anyone seen Artie?” Abigail asked, looking around and back toward the living room. “I've been back for three days, and I haven't seen or heard from him. Or Claudia, for that matter.”

“Yeah, about that,” Pete answered, “is it really okay for the Secret Keeper to be here, so close to the Warehouse?”

Abigail shrugged and shook her head. “Sorry, Pete. That's a need-to-know basis.”

“Ah.” Pete slunk his way back to his seat. “Even after all that's happened, the Regents don't change much, do they?”

“Only when they need to,” Abigail agreed with a small laugh. “But the good news is that I'm here to stay, at least as long as the Warehouse does.”

The room fell into a stifling silence. Pete's face lowered and refused to look up, and Myka couldn't help but look away, as well.

Abigail immediately felt the constricting vice of regret in her chest. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up. But it may be a good thing I'm here for the transition. You know, as a therapist.”

No one said anything.

She reached forward and grabbed a biscuit. “I'll just – you know – go.” She turned on her heel and started out of the room.

“You know she's just trying to help, Pete,” Myka said softly.

“You sure didn't jump at the chance to talk about it, either.” Pete stood to his feet and reached for the back door. He couldn't be here right now. Too many reminders of what he'd eventually be leaving behind. The door clicked shut, leaving Myka to watch him leave through the glass panes in total silence.

 

The Warehouse hadn't changed in the past month, but something inside it had. As Pete stepped into the main office, he felt the pressure in his chest once more. He stood there, in his _home_ , not knowing how long he had left to treasure it. As Pete looked around the room, his eyes continued locking onto various objects on shelves or desks, each one igniting a memory. Even at the Warehouse, he couldn't escape the fact he would soon be leaving everything he loved behind.

As he found a seat near the corner of the room, Pete sighed and covered his face. “This has to end,” he whispered through his hands.

“Yup. But not today.” Pete looked up to find the intelligent, joyous eyes of one Claudia Donovan standing in the doorway leading out to the warehouse floor. In her hand was the golden shape of the pocket computer that she'd designed to transmit possible “ping” information on the go. Her face was split by a toothy grin.

“Uh, what? Did we get a ping?” Pete asked, standing to his feet with enough energy to surprise himself.

Claudia rushed over to the computer system at the front of the office, joy quickly spreading across her face. “I do believe so, yes, kind sir. One sec.” The clacking of the keyboard filled the still office air as Claudia accessed the network. “Right here. See?”

Pete leaned in to look. On the screen was a newspaper headline alongside an image of a young woman in a hospital bed.

The headline was not comforting. “Annapolis Doctors Concerned Over Rising Alzheimer's Diagnoses? You sure that's one of ours, Claud?”

Claudia continued typing. “Alzheimer's is an old people disease, right? Well, what the headline doesn't tell you is that _each_ case in Annapolis has been affecting people _in their twenties_.”

Pete's eyes widened. “Oh.”

“'Oh,' indeed. One or two cases, sure, since we can't rule out natural causes, but we've had a report of over twenty cases being diagnosed between the ages of twenty-two and thirty-five in the past three months.”

“Nice catch. Did you tell Artie?”

Claudia shook her head. “That's why I was out on the floor, but I can't find the silly old bear. He's not picking up on his Farnsworth, either. Steve's out looking for him, now.”

“That's weird. Think somethin's up?” Pete asked.

Claudia sighed. “Who even knows anymore, right? We haven't heard from Mrs. Frederic in weeks, the Regents are silent – as usual – and Artie's probably more upset about this whole 'give up the Warehouse forever' thing than anyone, event though he won't admit it.”

“Right.” There was that irritating pressure on Pete's chest again. He looked down at Claudia directly. “You holding up okay?”

Claudia gave him a dismissive wave. “Psh, sure! Couldn't be better!”

“Claud...”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “I'm okay, but I think I'll be better if I talk to Abigail about it. But that's later. This is now. You've got a ping!”

“Right. Okay. Great job.” Pete clapped Claudia on the shoulder. “I'll call Myka, and we'll get on this. It'll be good to get out of South Dakota for a while.” He turned to head out the way he'd come, with Claudia's voice chasing him as she spun around in Artie's chair.

“No kissy-kissy on the job, Lattimer!”

“That goes for you, too!”

“I don't even know what that means!”

 

“It's probably got something to do with the cancer scare, but I hate hospitals more than I used to.” Myka's long strides left Pete hurrying alongside her as she trekked down the sterile hallway of a hospital in Annapolis, Maryland. The two of them passed by nurses, patients, and visitors after confirming their destination at the front desk. Their quarry could be found in room 216, just a few sharp left turns away from the nurse's station.

As they approached room the room, a physician met them in the hallway. He was older, with greying hair and bifocals on his nose. He stared down at the tablet in his hands, muttering to himself. Pete and Myka went ignored as they stopped in front of him.

“Excuse us,” Myka started. Her eyes dashed to the physician's hospital badge. “Pardon us, Doctor Maheesi, but do you have a moment about that patient?”

The physician jerked his eyes up to meet the agents', his mouth slightly agape. “I-I'm sorry, but you are-?”

Pete flashed the little golden ticket in front of the doctor. “Secret Service. We're here about your sudden increase in Alzheimer's cases.”

Doctor Maheesi took a deep breath of relief. “Thank goodness. You're government. We've been getting quite a bit of bad press over this. Come with me.”

The three of them found themselves in a small office on the third floor, square, with large windows to the outside. The room was otherwise very shut off, with no glass leading into the connecting hallway. Myka scanned the shelves briefly as they stood in front of the large wooden desk – several antique statuettes of people in a variety of sitting positions, likely Indian, lined the top of Doctor Maheesi's glass-front cabinet. Inside, she saw only plaques and awards for a variety of services and charity cases.

“I'll be glad to answer any questions you have,” Doctor Maheesi said, “but I honestly can't tell you very much. We're still investigating the situation ourselves.”

“We're here to help,” Myka assured him, locking her eyes on his. “We were told this began about three months ago?”

The doctor nodded as he settled into the chair behind his desk. “Our first young patient was admitted by her mother. She was twenty-six. When we couldn't find anything wrong with her physically, we suggested she see a neurologist.”

“Did they follow up with you?” Myka asked. Pete's hands wandered to the desk, where a small candy bowl was placed. Myka smacked his arm and he stood up straight, adjusting his belt.

“We received a report from a neurologist three days later, confirming that she had early-onset Alzheimer's. It was unfortunate, but we didn't think much of it. Twenty-six years old is unfortunate, but not unheard of, with Alzheimer's-”

“But that's not all it was,” Pete finished for the doctor. “Another patient came in soon after her, right? And more?”

The doctor cleared his throat. Myka noticed him wring his hands for a moment. “Within two weeks, we had five patients, each one of a similar age, all with the same symptoms, come through our system.”

Myka gestured to the doctor's cabinet. “I see you have quite a few commendations for your charity work, Doctor Maheesi, but I can't help but notice those amazing relics on top of your cabinet. Are any of those new to your collection?”

The doctor shrugged and shook his head. “No, I've had each of those since coming to the US in the late 90s. Why do you ask?”

Myka gave him a reassuring smile. “No reason. They're quite striking.”

“Family heirlooms, most of them,” Doctor Maheesi explained. “They bring me peace when I am homesick or lonely. I haven't let them leave the room since I acquired this office a year ago.”

“They're very precious to you,” Myka affirmed.

Pete's eyes scanned the idols atop the cabinet absently. “Has your investigation turned up anything? Like common neighborhoods or medical history?”

Doctor Maheesi shook his head. “Not yet. Some of these patients aren't even from Maryland.”

One of Myka's eyebrows found itself raised. “Is there any way we might be able to speak with one of the patients you're observing?”

“Of course. Room 216, where you found me. I'll call for a nurse to meet you there. If you'll excuse me.” The doctor picked up his office phone and punched a few numbers as Pete and Myka turned to exit the room.

Once they were in the hallway once more, Pete sighed. “Not the Doc, huh?”

“Nn, probably not. He was nervous, but not guilty. And I'm more interested in the fact that some of the victims aren't from around here. Let's go talk to room 216.”

Pete made a grand gesture to Myka to lead the way, and he quickly fell in step behind.

 

“Artie?” The lanky build of one Steve Jinks appeared in the doorway leading out to the Warehouse floor, his eyes scanning the desolate office. “Artie? You here?”

When there was no answer, Steve moved toward the spiral staircase that everyone knew led to Artie's makeshift bedroom. It never made much sense to Steve why Artie had a bedroom set up in the Warehouse when the BnB worked perfectly fine for the same thing, but it had seemed so normal to everyone else, he'd just never bothered to bring it up. He'd also never _been_ in Artie's room, at either locale.

Artie's bed was surrounded by towering stacks of books and papers, almost like he used it as a desk for research. While the idea of Artie sitting in his pjs poring over some ancient tome about a potential artifact in his bed did bring a smile to Jinks's face, Steve didn't see the old man anywhere. With a shrug, he return to the main floor of the office.

Steve approached the computer hardware at the front of the office, his arms folded across his chest in contemplation. It wasn't until he looked down at the computer screen itself that he noticed the flashing signal: an artifact had been removed from the shelf.

“What are you doing off the shelf?” he asked no one in particular. He reached down to the keyboard and punched a key, bringing up an image of the artifact that had been removed. As soon as it finished rendering the image, Steve felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach. _This is bad. Claudia's still back at the BnB,_ he thought.

Steve took a mental note of the location of the artifact and bolted for the Warehouse floor. En route, he grabbed a Farnsworth off their station and dialed Claudia. Back on the computer screen, a flashing red light read _Danger: Artifact Disturbance_ directly next to the image of a pair of bronzed baby shoes.

 


End file.
